


i called her on the phone and she touched herself

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cybersex, Dom/sub, Feminization, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Spit As Lube, eric is once again in a skirt, fleshlight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: He opens his laptop, opens the webcam, stares at himself. He's still in his KMFDM tour shirt (vintage, authentic), but it falls over the skirt Vodka bought him. The hem spreads and settles across his crossed legs, barely brushes against his covers. The stockings strain against the grip of the garters, push into his thigh, but the camera can't spot them unless Eric lifts his pleated skirt, unless he wants to put on a show. He can't think too hard about the underwear he's wearing, white, lacy, the way it lays against his hips, the way it fits perfectly.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: let's break the internet





	i called her on the phone and she touched herself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dahhhmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahhhmer/gifts).



> blame my girlfriend. minimally edited, unbeta'd.
> 
> this is, again, part of the au me and 1997vodka write together. this is earlier in their relationship, when they're still kinda pretending to be strangers on the internet when they do things like this and not literally 10 feet from one another. 
> 
> sorry for making eric harris a femboy but also my brain is so huge.

Eric takes a deep breath. This is fine. He'll be fine. There's nothing to even be nervous about. He could stay completely silent for a half hour and Dylan would still find a way to rub one out. 

There's an unrelenting tension in his chest regardless. He opens his laptop, opens the webcam, stares at himself. He's still in his KMFDM tour shirt (vintage, authentic), but it falls over the skirt Vodka bought him. The hem spreads and settles across his crossed legs, barely brushes against his covers. The stockings strain against the grip of the garters, push into his thigh, but the camera can't spot them unless Eric lifts his pleated skirt, unless he wants to put on a show. He can't think too hard about the underwear he's wearing, white, lacy, the way it lays against his hips, the way it fits perfectly.

His breathing picks up, some measure of arousal meeting the anxiety. The thought of Vodka seeing him like this, of anyone seeing him like this makes his chest ache and right after makes his dick twitch. Which was great. It;s one thing to know Dylan liked seeing him in things like this, another to know he liked Dylan liking seeing him in things like this. 

There was some moment before this, long past now, where Eric was a normal fucking person with relatively normal fantasies and interests. Maybe if Dylan wasn't a fucking freak. 

He stares at himself in the camera, moving to his knees, trying to see the position he looks best, what angel makes the skirt fall in a perfect silhouette, what movements made the fabric ride up and show what was underneath. Sure, he felt slutty. He felt indulgent. 

He messages Vodka then: _Ready when you are._ And a few moments later his Discord's ringing. 

Eric has to remember to breathe. He takes one last look at himself in the webcam, then accepts the call. 

The gasp Vodka makes the moment he connects is priceless. His camera's on his desk, Eric could tell from the glimpses of posters behind it, the edge of his bed. It's angled downward though, only showing his neck, chest, lap, all covered. "God. Look at you."

"Would rather not," Eric mumbles, his voice shakier than he'd like. 

Dylan laughs, light and sweet, and it takes some tension from the moment. This is his best friend, even if he's pretending to be an internet stranger. There's not much Eric could possibly do, short of killing him maybe, that Dylan wouldn't accept. And he wanted Eric here. He bought these things for him. 

"...You okay?"

Eric nods then realizes Dylan can't see much of his face. "Yeah. It's, uh, kinda weird. It's really weird, but I'm-- It's alright. I'm good." He immediately wanted to bury himself alive. 

"Good. You can-- You can leave whenever you want, okay? No questions."

"Okay. Okay." Eric breathes in, "Okay."

"You really do look-- Perfect," He shifts a bit in his seat, "It suits you." 

Eric shakes his head, covers his face with his hands, "Don't say that," he whines.

Dylan laughs, but lower, more teasing. "It does! You look so pretty, Reb, all dressed up for me. How'd it feel putting it on?"

Eric runs his hands down, finds the fabric of the skirt, grips it lightly. "Weird. Good, I guess."

"Because you knew it was for me, right? Makes it feel better."

Eric stays quiet, fidgeting with his skirt. 

"Are you wearing everything I got you?"

"Unfortunately."

"I wouldn't be bratty right now, baby. If I were you."

Eric chokes back a sound, nods. "Uh, yeah. Yes, I am."

"Can I see?"

Eric thinks about hanging up right then, putting all of this back in the package it came in, and flinging himself out his window. Instead, he pulls the skirt back, showing white lace, pink panties. It all fit perfectly, thank god, but that somehow made it worse. The fact that it didn't feel awkward how it should, didn't feel uncomfortable, really, just felt new. Like being on camera like this with his best friend. New, weird, but enjoyable in some way. 

Dylan practically hisses, and through his shitty pixelated webcam, Eric can almost see him get hard. Eric bites his lip, just in view. 

"You know how hard it is to sit here knowing you look like that? How bad I wanna come over--" His voice hitches, "Jesus. Take your shirt off, baby."

Eric whines, hums. He takes the bottom of his shirt in his hands, thinks about the dip in his chest, how this'll be the first time Vodka sees him shirtless, even if Dylan has before. He pulls it over his head, lays it on the floor next to his bed. His instinct is to cover the middle of his chest, draw his arms close, but he stays still, lets Vodka take him in. 

Vodka pulls down his zipper, and Eric almost looks away, out of privacy or whatever, force of habit. But when he does look-- He's seen Vodka before in posts, under captions from KMFDM and Manson songs. In posts he rarely liked in fear of coming across like a creep, or worse, as if he had a crush on him. 

And now he was holding his cock in front of him, and Eric can hear his breathing picking up, can practically hear his heartbeat, can see the pixels shift and glide as his hand moves. Eric's chest swells.

"Use the toy I got you, sweetheart." 

Eric nods, shifts a little, pulling at his underwear, trying to push it to the side without having it cut into him. His dick is out for half a second and Dylan's voice starts catching, starts stumbling over praises, soft moans. Perfect, he says, like he can't help himself, like he's a man compelled. 

Eric spits into his hand, grabs the fleshlight with the other, slicks up his dick, catches Dylan on the screen. His chest is heaving, his hand slow but obviously restrained. It's flattering, Eric thinks, that he wants to draw it out, has to draw it out. 

He barely has the toy around the tip of his cock before Vodka's spouting off more orders. "Push your tits together, baby."

Eric does not have tits. It makes his head spin all the same. He pushes his chest together awkwardly with both arms still sinking into the fake pussy in his hands. It's so many things to take in at once-- the image of Dylan in front of him, moving faster now the feeling of something other than his hand sinking down around his cock, the feelings of pushing together his nonexistent tits, the feeling of the skirt, of the stockings, of everything else. Eric can hardly see straight, hardly remember to breathe. 

He snaps into that floaty, almost out-of-touch headspace he's only reached in earnest once. It's easier when he doesn't have to think of things to say, doesn't have to make anything coherent, put anything into words. When he can stare at Vodka, panting, praising, listen to him and do everything he says. 

He doesn't even think to come until Vodka tells him to, and he's pushed over just like that, with a sharp, choked sound, eyes squeezed closed, mouth open, feeling his own cum surround his cock, drip down onto the bottom of his stomach. 

He opens his eyes for half a moment and sees the exact moment Dylan comes, spills over his hand, his rings. Eric gasps, chokes, drools. Nearly cries. 

In the moment right after, they're both deadly quiet. Eric feels like he launched himself into the Sun, can feel all his skin shimmer and burn off. Becomes a hollow head and clean bones. Dylan's voice comes out as rougher. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Reb." He breathes in, "You're fucking beautiful."

Eric melts. Feels tears in his eyes, feels blood rush from his dick to his face. He licks his bottom lips, tries to find ways to put his general dizziness and bliss into words, opens his mouth even, but nothing comes out. He thinks about telling Dylan to come over, let him suck his cum off his fingers. He can go again, he thinks, he'll let Dylan come inside him this time, he wants to know what he feels like nestled all the way inside him, wants to know what his fingers taste like. 

Eric swallows. 

"Are you crying, sweetheart? Are you alright?"

He sniffs, digs his palm into his eyes, wipes his face. "Fine. Good, I swear. I just-- I'm good."

Dylan's wiping himself down, pushing himself back into his pants. He tilts the camera up so Eric can see his face. "I can-- I can give you a second, come over. Or we can watch a movie or something."

Eric moves his own camera up, and if he ignores any bodily sensation, he can pretend he's just on video with his best friend for normal reasons. He sniffs, nods. "Okay." It sounds more pathetic than it should. 

"Take your time, alright? I'll be in the living room." His eyebrows are pushed together, his lips chewed raw. Eric thinks about kissing him. 

Eric nods again. There's an awkward space between then, and just when Dylan's about to hang up, Eric speaks up.

"It was good. It was-- I liked it. I think I just--"

"You don't have to explain yourself, Eric."

"I want to. Shut up for a second."

Dylan's mouth catches in a grin. 

"It's just a lot, I think. Overwhelming. Not because it's, like, bad or anything. Okay?"

Dylan nods. Eric can't stop thinking about pulling him into bed, wrapping himself around him, pushing his hands between his legs, around his waist, something. He closes his eyes.

"Anyway. I'm fine. I'm good. You don't have to like-- hang out with me out of pity or something."

He can hear the roll of Dylan's eyes in his voice, "It's literally just me being decent, dumbass. I don't pity you. I'm this close to..." He shakes his head, like _that's_ crossing the line, after jerking off in front of him. "And it'll help." He adds the last bit in a softer tone. And Eric couldn't put up more of a fight if he wanted to. 

Eric sighs. "Fine. I'll be there in a sec."

Dylan smiles, shuts his laptop. 

In the quiet of his room, in the aftermath, he settles. There's something in the back of his head saying he ruined the moment, but a larger part feeling... Grateful, he thinks. Like his heart's beating clearer. Like all of his organs have been scrubbed and cleaned. The thin veil of Reb fades completely, and Eric faces himself and doesn't feel anything close to shame, even dressed how he is, even soaked in various types of his own fluids. 

This is fine, he thinks. This is good, actually. He can keep doing this, can keep putting himself in Dylan's hands. He wants to. 


End file.
